show (they come up on "The Ameri-
cans," too), but they're multiplied when
the spies are genetic facsimiles.
If you haven't heard of Maslany be-
fore, that's probably because she's Cana-
dian, from Saskatchewan; her previous
credits are for things like "Ginger Snaps 2,"
the sequel to the cult lesbian-werewolf
film (which I'd also recommend, as long as
you're going Canadian). Maslany has
done improv comedy and she's played a
heroin addict and the Virgin Mary on Ca-
nadian television, but on "Orphan Black"
she powers up, as in a video game, by col-
lecting extra lives. Along with Beth and
Sarah, she plays Alison, a gun-toting
mom with a craft room that functions as
her anxious unconscious; Cosima, an
American science geek, lesbian, and hip-
pie, the warmest and most humane of the
clones; Katja, a hip German; and at least
one new clone this season, although I'm
trying to avoid spoilers. There's also
Sarah's twin sister, Helena, a creature un-
like any other, as the mid-nineties advice
book "The Rules" might put it. At the end
of last season, we also met Rachel, a cor-
porate ice queen, who swanned into the
narrative in a Wintour-worthy bob.
As Sarah comforts and snipes with
her DNA sisters, it's difficult to remem-
ber that we're watching Maslany in each
role. This is partly because of the show's
technical wit: Maslany will play a scene
as one clone, then another, and, when
these two (or even three) takes are digi-
tally merged, she appears to interact
more intimately than was possible in
older "twin" films, shoving herself against
a wall or placing Sarah's hand on Alison's
knee. But Maslany's true skill is empa-
thy, not technical mimicry. Television
these days overflows with high-octane
performances, many by movie stars, who
tap into their native charisma, then crank
it to 11. (Consider this a blind item.)
Maslany wasn't even nominated for an
Emmy, and yet her unusual blend of grit
and delicacy puts all those gaudy mono-
loguists and chin-wobblers to shame,
demonstrating how a submerged perfor-
mance can be bolder than a surface one.
The circumstances beg one to compare
the different roles, as if they were in com-
petition. Basically, Maslany is solid as
Sarah, an ethically ambiguous heroine,
whose charm can verge on a survivor's nar-
cissism. She's disarming as the funky Co-
sima, with her Berkeley vibe, white-girl
braids, and air of bemused vulnerability.
(For instance, she helps us to believe that
Cosima would glide into an affair with her
French female handler, even when her ac-
tions don't make that much sense.) Masla-
ny's standout characters, however, are
Alison and Helena. When Alison first ap-
peared, she seemed like a comic cliché: the
pill-popping suburbanite in a sports bra.
But somehow, no matter how strained or
satirical Alison's plot becomes, Maslany
finds a tart vulnerability within her. In one
of last year's best episodes, Sarah played
Alison at a party, putting on her tight
headband and tighter jaw to cover for the
real Alison, who was downstairs, using a
glue gun to torture her husband, Donnie,
into confessing that he was her handler.
Sarah's Alison was hilarious, a parody
priss. Yet the real Alison was heartbreak-
ing. She vibrated with unsettling domina-
trix rage; then she crumpled, her lip trem-
bling, at the revelation that "eating, farting
Donnie" might simply be her husband.
Then there's Helena, Sarah's birth twin,
who appeared midway into the first season,
with pre-Raphaelite curls and a guttural
hiss. While Sarah was raised by a skeptical
but loving mother, Helena was kept in a
cage by a violently abusive religious nut, in
Ukraine. As a result, she is feral and unsta-
ble, with a Jagger swagger and serious knife
skills. Yet she can be oddly funny, too: her
imitation of Beth (or, really, her imitation
of Sarah imitating Beth) was priceless, as
she pulled on a black wool hat, walked
into the police station, and passed off her
strangeness as a hangover. In last year's sin-
gle most alarming sequence, a little boy
crept to a bathroom, hearing an intruder.
When he cracked the door, there was Hel-
ena, covered in blood from a recent attack.
As she crooked her finger for the boy to
enter, a grin spread across her face like a
scar, and I nearly had a heart attack. She
was "an angry angel," the child told the
cops, and that's what Helena feels like: not
a stock villain but something wilder, her
hunger for connection as bloody as her fury.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention
another performance. As Felix, Jordan
Gavaris plays one role, which could eas-
ily have one note: the flamboyant gay
sidekick. Instead, Gavaris finds a fresh
way to play off each of Maslany's clones,
and puts a sly topspin on every joke. If
he doesn't steal her scenes (who could?),
he's certainly a co-conspirator.
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